


Alone

by hithelleth



Series: Alone [1]
Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Future Fic, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-18
Updated: 2013-09-15
Packaged: 2017-12-20 14:54:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/888573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hithelleth/pseuds/hithelleth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU to season one finale. Miles, Nora and Bass team up to rescue Charlie, Rachel and Aaron. But, when Aaron turns the power on, something goes terribly wrong and as the Tower blows up, Charlie and Bass are the only survivors.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. They Lost Everyone Else

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Steph_Schell](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Steph_Schell/gifts), [angelette](https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelette/gifts).



> Just because.

Bass could tell Charlotte didn’t only lack gratitude for being saved from certain death but was actually hell bent on killing him as he turned his back on her and walked away. His pride might have been insulted, but he understood her. Wouldn’t he do the same for his brother, for Miles? He had, and worse, they both had.

That was why all the unresolved things between them didn’t matter when they realised they were surrounded by common enemies.

Bass could almost laugh at how easy it was to fall back into a well-known routine, the three of them – he, Miles and Nora – moving like clockwork, making their way to Rachel, Charlotte and the fat guy, killing everyone who crossed their way.

Bass should have known that he and Rachel agreeing for once – on turning the power on – didn’t bode well. He only thought of that when it was already too late.

It was simple then, though: get the power on and get out of the Tower.

No one expected what happened next, one long quiet moment after the fat guy – Aaron – hit _enter_ : Randall in the next room launching the ICBMs on Philly and Atlanta, saying exactly what Bass had known all along – that Randal was using Bass as a pawn in some sort of a bullshit patriotic agenda of his.

After Randall had shot himself, they remained nailed to their places, shocked, looking at the ICBMs’ progress on the screen, apart from Miles who started pounding at the bulletproof glass to break it, futilely.

Rachel regained reason first.

“Turn the power off, Aaron.”

The latter began frantically typing, commenting that “It’s not working”. Suddenly, an alarm went off, computers started beeping and red lights and monitors were flashing everywhere.

Charlotte, a stranger to technology, covered her ears while the rest of them just stared.

Rachel and Aaron yelled over the noise. Bass could see Aaron’s hands shaking, and then Rachel shouted: “Out! Everyone get out, this whole thing’s gonna explode.”

They ran, Bass in front with Charlotte right behind, Rachel and Aaron were next, and Nora and Miles at the back.

The air turned smoky, but they ran as fast as they could, up the stairs.

A rumbling noise was coming from somewhere beneath, getting louder. Bass heard Rachel saying something about level 12.

The exit came into view, the colliders shaking and rattling.

Bass and Charlotte were already on the bridge, when the whole structure shook.

At the same time several attackers charged the back of their group.

Bass turned to see Charlotte running back to help fight them off just in time to catch her by her jacket, stopping her, obeying Rachel’s shouted command to get Charlie out as she swung her rifle at her assailant’s head, sending him over the railing into the Tower’s depths.

It helped Charlotte stop resisting him as he pulled her away, backwards, off the bridge, out in the open. The others followed, having shaken off the attackers.

They were halfway across the bridge, Rachel first, when everything blew up.

Bass saw Rachel freeze in motion, a wall of fire behind her, before throwing both himself and Charlotte on the ground, the blast from the entrance spewing heat and smoke up above them.

When they got on their feet, there was smoke and dust everywhere. The Tower’s entrance has collapsed upon itself, a big hole gaping in its place.

Bass heard commotion around them, but there weren’t enough voices. There should have been more of his men out here.

Someone came through the haze. Bass got up, opened his mouth to give an order, ask a question – he didn’t know what exactly – and ducked to the ground as the man fired at him.

“It’s General Monroe!” Bass bellowed. “Don’t shoot!”

Even as he spoke, the man resumed fringing.

Bass cowered to the ground, blindly dragging Charlotte with him, until the smoke hid them.

He heard indiscernible calls behind them, but no one pursued them.

The few voices got farther away.

They made it a little farther, before Charlotte tried to run right back to the Tower, screaming and kicking when Bass caught her and held her back until she turned around and started hitting him, furiously pounding with her fists as he tried to restrain her, the words “Miles” and “mom” and “Miles” and “no” repeated over and over again in a broken voice trough the tears streaming down her cheeks and only seeing those Bass realised he’s crying himself as she tired out, sagging against him and they both slid to the ground, unable to grasp what had just happened.

Later, Bass wasn’t sure how much later, he got up, towing Charlotte behind him, tightly gripping her wrist. They stopped on the top of the ridge, looking down on the black pit.

The camp seemed destroyed as well, no one in sight.

“What if…” Charlotte started but stopped. There couldn’t have been any survivors.

Bass contemplated for a moment what to do.

It only now came to him that some of the attackers in the Tower had been Militia, the fact that had been lost on him at the time for the fear of a greater danger. Was it Tom’s voice he had heard back there, ordering to “kill them all”?

Bass had known Tom turning against him had been only a matter of time, of course.

Tom was probably dead like everyone else now.

Bass didn’t say anything, just swallowed back a lump in his throat and pulled Charlotte forward, down the slope. There was no way such an event would go unnoticed and people would be coming to see what had happened soon. They had better be far away by then.

Some way down the road, when Charlotte mustered new strength, she ripped her hand away, and let the anger out, spitting the hatred and blame all over him. He had no idea why he just gritted his teeth and dragged her along while she threw every insult – some were quite imaginative – she could think of at him, her voice breaking time and again, her eyes brimming with tears.

She tried to go away on her own, but he wouldn’t let her. He didn’t think she’d make it alone, not in her current state. So he held her arm and made her go with him.

She tried to kill him that evening. With his own knife. (Thankfully, he had thought of taking her crossbow and gun away before that).

Truth be told, Charlotte was too shaken for planning and stealth, which was lucky for him. He heard her sneaking behind him just in time to duck aside. After a short struggle he got the knife away from her.

That prompted another fit of fist-punching him. He just let her get it all out at first while she was screaming and crying, before catching her wrists to stop her. It didn’t work this time: her screams turned into whines, her breathing became fast and shallow. She was getting herself into a hysterical fit and he panicked, shaking her by the shoulders to break her out of it, telling her to stop.

She only whined louder, trying to get away, stomping on his foot. It was a pure reflex, his hand moving on its own accord before he could think what he was doing.

Charlie stilled and went quiet at the slap.

“Shit.” Bass cursed himself under his breath.

“I’m sorry.” He put his hands on her shoulders again, gently this time, leaning down to look in her face. She stared somewhere past his head, but she looked at him when he told her to.

He sighed.

“I’m sorry I hit you, I didn’t mean to.”

He paused.

“I’m trying to get us somewhere safer and I can’t do this if you keep trying to run away or kill me, okay? You have to stop or I’ll tie you up and I don’t want that. Do you understand, Charlotte?”

She didn’t respond, just looked away.

He cupped her chin, making her look at him again.

“Do you understand?”

After a second, she nodded.

She sat down on a log a few feet away.

Bass picked up her backpack – that and the weapons was all they had, and he was grateful she kept it on her shoulders in the Tower.

Bass opened it in front of her, expecting objections, but she didn’t say anything.

There were spare clothes and other things inside that he left alone. But she also had a couple of water bottles and a fire kit. Those they could use.

He got them water from the stream nearby.

Charlotte was sitting motionless, staring in the distance. He used some of the water to moisten a fairly clean rag and offered it to her.

She stared at him blankly. He took her hand and pressed the rag into it, putting both against her cheek. “It should be ice, but… gotta make with what we have. It might help.”

Bass didn’t know why he felt so guilty. He had done much worse things than slapping someone. And at least it helped stop her from having a complete mental breakdown. But he still felt badly.

***

Charlotte didn’t try to kill him again, didn’t try to run away, didn’t fight him or vomit her anger all over him.

Bass would soon prefer she did.

Instead she became quiet, following him without discussion or resistance, her replies monosyllabic or not even that, only nods and head shakes.

Bass was relieved for a day or two, thankful they were moving fast without arguing.

Soon, however, he started feeling uneasy, paying closer attention to her.

She kept up with him without difficulty and helped him with whatever he asked when making camp.

Yet, he became increasingly worried as her eyes got gradually more and more empty, her motions robotic, lifeless. Charlotte seemed numb, as if she had retreated to some unreachable place within or perhaps just lost herself, dissolving into the air.

He got it. He would be like that too, if it wasn’t for her. In a strange way, she was his salvation. If he hadn’t had her to take care of, wouldn’t he… He wondered what was going on behind those blank eyes, what kind of thoughts plagued her mind… or did she just block it all out?

Bass sometimes wished he could do that, trying to think of it as little as possible to stay – relatively – sane. He was glad he had too much to do to survive on a day-to-day basis – find which way to go, food, water – to think about it. _It_ was easier than _Miles_ , _Rachel_ , and _dead_.

Even as it was, Bass caught himself mindlessly gripping his gun now and then… It was then when he thought of doing what he had meant to once before, a long time ago, in another life that had been gone just as the one that came after. Yes, he realised, that was it; he lost another life right there in the explosion.

He bit his lip and walked faster, trying to forget the gun on his hip.

If it wasn’t for Charlotte he would have done it. He had thought of it – now he really didn’t have anyone to live for. (A son, some part of his mind supplied, but the other, more realistic part rejected the thought – even if he existed, he was impossible to find, and even if Bass ever found him, with Bass’ luck he would hate Bass, so…)

Still, he couldn’t just leave Charlotte like that, in her present condition, at the mercy of all sorts of bandits. No, even killing her would be less terrible. But he could never kill her now. So he made do, however he could, hoping she would get out of her stupor, eventually.

PTSD, he thought. You don’t just get over it. He knew that all too well. What Charlotte was going through – what they were both going through, but he pretended he wasn’t – was shock, grief, anger, maybe denial. Hell, if the world was normal (although Bass couldn’t say if it had ever been normal, not for him, no), he would do his best to find her a shrink (he could probably use one himself, but that was beside the point). There wasn’t one to find these days, though, and how could they help anyway? Bass snorted inwardly.

He caught her sometimes looking right at him while he was caressing his gun, prompted by dark thoughts and the void inside him and all around them. For a moment he felt half-hopeful she might break out of her isolation, half-afraid she might descend even further into darkness. But when he looked again, her gaze was still blank, her eyes looking through him as if he was invisible.

***

Bass lost count of how many days Charlotte remained withdrawn. She could have been but a ghost walking beside him, had she not sometimes took his hand to get over an obstacle on the way or helped skin their catch and the like.

She was there and at the same time wasn’t there.

He wasn’t sure whether poking at her, trying to entice a genuine reaction from her would do more harm than good, so he let her run on autopilot.

He kept watching her closely, the closer the louder his own demons got.

When he couldn’t stand the silence, he talked to her. It was like talking to the air, but he did it anyway, debating about which direction they should take on the crossroads or whether it would rain soon or how would they prepare their meal in the evening. Sometimes he talked about the places they were going through – he was only guessing they were still in what used to be Colorado – the history, the geography, the old cities and people he knew there, although he was making up more than half of it.

Then he would get tired of it and went mostly silent himself for a day or two as they kept going south, until the silence got too pressing and he started the cycle all over again.

They stayed together at all times, not putting too much distance between each other, not even when hunting or making camp.

Bass knew well enough to avoid settlements and people in general, although there weren’t many in this part of the world anyway. People of Plains Nation were hungry and crude and they would only get trouble from them instead of help. He stayed among the hills where they could find water and food, on course due south, though, careful not to turn too far west towards the desert.

They must have been getting close to the Wasteland border when they were attacked.

They stopped by a creek for a break shortly after noon.

Charlotte made her way behind a group of bushes a little distance away while Bass went to fetch fresh water.

There were three of them. One had a rifle, but the other two only had swords and fortunately Bass saw them coming first, up along the stream. Afterwards, he guessed it was a coincidence they ran into him. If they had been waiting in ambush, he would be dead.

They seemed just as surprised as he, almost stumbling upon him, which was another stroke of luck. Bass gathered his wits quickly, shooting the one with the rifle before the bandit could take a proper aim at him. He didn’t kill the bandit, but at least the man dropped his rifle and Bass lounged for it, kicking it into the brook, rendering it temporarily useless.

The other two were on him instantly and he barely dodged their swords and drew his own.

He was striking at them and blocking their blows, but they were two against one, and even though the bandits weren’t the best of fighters, Bass found himself losing his ground.

One of them managed to come close enough to make a slice across Bass’ thigh – superficial, Bass estimated – hoped, blocking the other one’s blow, aimed at his chest, with his left arm while turning aside to block a hit aimed at his side.

Suddenly, the first one had a sword at Bass’ throat.

“That’s it,” Bass thought. “It’s over.”

There was a swish and a thump and the man behind him made a choking sound, dropping his sword. Free, Bass had just enough sense to use the momentary distraction to lounge at the second man, knocking his sword from his hand, driving his own sword into the man’s gut and finishing him off by slashing his throat with his other sword.

Only then he looked around him.

Charlotte stood at the edge of the brush, her crossbow lowered. He was glad he trusted her enough to give it back to her a while back – for protection, and she had much better aim with it when hunting small fast things, such as squirrels and wild rabbits. 

As she slowly approached him, he caught a movement in the corner of his eye. The third man, the one Bass shot first, was trying to half-stagger, half-crawl away. He cringed and started begging when Bass closed the distance in a few long strides, but Bass didn’t listen. It was better not to waste bullets and his gunshot had made enough noise earlier, so he delivered a fast death with a blow of his sword, jumping away from the blood spray, a few droplets landing on him anyway.

He wiped his face with a sleeve, walking back. He checked the man Charlotte had shot. He was dead.

Charlotte stood a few feet away. Her face seemed just as expressionless as always of late.

He thanked her. “You saved my life.”

She only shrugged in response, sticking to her silence, but she helped him hide the bodies under the nearest bushes. With a bit of luck no one would come by for a long time, and anyway, wild beasts would do their job in a few days.

He retrieved the rifle from the edge of the water and finished filling their bottles. They couldn’t stop here now.

Charlotte rummaged through her backpack in the meantime. She pulled out a small liquor container he had seen before and resisted, saving it for bad times.

Charlotte held it out to him.

He looked at her uncomprehending. She thought he needed a drink? Actually, he did. But he guessed a more dire situation might require it later.

Charlotte shook the bottle, an impatient gesture, as he didn’t take it. She twisted her lips, trying to shape it around a word before speaking.

“For disinfection.” She looked at his thigh.

“It’s just a scratch.” He tried to brush it off.

Charlotte shook her head, shoving the bottle at him.

“You can’t die.”

_Oh._

Those five words were the most she spoke at a time in… forever.

Bass suppressed a sudden rush of emotion and took the thing from her hand.

He put it down beside the rifle. He dropped his pants to his knees, examining the gash. It was shallow, just as he had thought, but was still bleeding a little. He washed the surrounding area with the water from the creek and then poured the liquor on the wound, sharply drawing his breath through the teeth at the sting.

There was a ripping sound and he turned around to see Charlotte holding out a ribbon of cloth, torn from her spare shirt, he assumed. He almost said she didn’t have to, but thought better and took it.

“Thanks.”

She didn’t respond.

They each drank a little, filling their bottles to the full again and then moved on.

***

Charlotte returned to her quiet ways.

Bass supposed it was just a momentary shock that moved her, or so he told himself, not daring to get his hopes up.

However, as the days went by, Charlotte seemed less distant at times, somehow more aware of the world around her, her breathing a bit more lively, a glimmer of life in her eyes here and there.

They must have crossed the border into Wasteland in a few days, and after going south for two more days just to be sure, Bass didn’t veer away from the signs of human habitation for a change.

As they approached a village, Charlotte sneaked her hand in his. She looked away as he eyed her curiously. She seemed nervous, scared. He entwined his fingers with hers and squeezed her hand reassuringly, not letting go. He felt her hand relax in his a little.

The village was small and no one asked him questions when he traded a few furs they saved from their catch and the rifle for clothes for both of them, some food, a razor and a piece of soap (a beard helped mask his identity but it bothered him), and a small bottle of something alcoholic, home-brewed, although he wasn’t sure what it was. He felt he had to replace what he had used back there. And, well, one could never know when it could be of use, even if it was barely less than poison.

The hand-holding became a thing, rare at first, normally when there was a chance of encountering other people.

With time, it developed into a habit that didn’t need a reason for.

Bass was guessing it was when Charlotte must have been tormented more than usually inside her head, although it was then that she also seemed more herself, more alive somehow. Or was it his vain wishful thinking?

People, when they did meet any, thought they were a couple. Neither Bass nor Charlotte bothered to correct them. Bass imagined it was easy to get such an impression, with with the way they were. It suited him just as well.

They moved farther south, still mostly sticking to themselves, remaining on secluded roads.

“Where are we going?” Charlotte asked him one day.

They were far in Wasteland now, and yet Bass felt a need to go even farther, as far away from anything remotely smelling of the former United States. Mexico, he thought. What used to be Mexico. The west part, apart from the coast, was Wasteland now. Wasteland Mexico would be good.

“Somewhere the names Monroe and Matheson don’t matter,” he replied.

She seemed to contemplate it for a bit, as if she suddenly remembered the names she had herself forgotten. Then she nodded and walked on.

The nights got colder, making them move closer to each other each night until they slept next to each other, their sides touching, and finally snuggled close, sharing the body heat.

It was just that, though, because they are were both still too shaken, too barren, stripped of everything to think of anything more.

Yet, this closeness was comforting, a connection similar to the silence between them.

The silence itself didn’t worry Bass as much as it had. It started to appear more of a quiet understanding of each other’s loss, pain, inability to open up, unobtrusive support which didn’t require words.

Bass wasn’t surprised when Charlotte sat beside him many evenings later, touching shoulder to shoulder.

They had sat like that plenty of times by then.

What surprised him were the words she said. He could tell she was gathering them, moulding them inside her head, but he let her take her time.

“I’ve been thinking,” she said at last, “and I can’t...” She paused, trying to find the right word. “I can’t…” She gave up, swallowing.

After a long while, she spoke again, almost whispering.

“Miles was invincible,” she stated. Bass wondered for a moment where she picked up the word, but then he remembered she had Ben and that Aaron guy for teachers.

“How can he be dead?”

The question hit Bass with a delay.

Charlotte leaned her head on his shoulder and he realised she was crying. Not the loud, hysterical crying from before, but soft sobbing and silent, simple tears of sadness.

He put his arm around her, drawing her closer.

“I don’t know.” He answered her question above her head, trying to blink away his own tears. He failed, giving in to the grief, letting himself cry as well. They stayed like that for a long time before curling up on the ground and falling asleep.

The next morning they packed their belongings as usually and went on.

There was no sudden change, no world turning upside down.

But as Charlotte’s eyes filled with sorrow, they filled with life as well.

Bass’ breath hurt from remorse and loss. But every breath was also light, a victory of survival, of making it thus far, a possibility of becoming worth of living again.

It was a promise of them getting better someday. Not well. Just better.

They turned southwest, giving a wide berth to the Texan border, crossing a narrow strip of desert and proceeding to the hills on the other side.

Hand in hand they walked on, two people with meaningless names, disappearing into an unknown land. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do you think? Good? Bad? I don’t know how to feel about it. 
> 
> Un-beta’d, so quibble away if you see something. Comments are always welcome.


	2. What do we do now?

Wasteland used to be a promised land: once she got Danny back, they would go to Wasteland, maybe even convince Miles to come with them.

There were no promised lands anymore, just the same heartless earth and trees and water or stone and sand and wind.

Everywhere you found the same sorts of people: some bad, not so many good, and most of them of the kind that only cared for themselves.

The further south they went, the more people spoke a language Charlie didn’t understand. “Spanish,” Monroe said, nodding to himself. Charlie was pretty sure Spanish or any other language didn’t require as much repetition of the same words and gesturing as Monroe was doing.

Charlie held his hand tightly every time they met anyone, pressing into his side, acting shier than she felt, because how she really felt was afraid. There were things she didn’t have to know the words to understand them: men leering at her; women laughing at Monroe, throwing back their heads to show off their long tanned necks.

“Come back _solo, gringo_ ,” they enticed Monroe. Charlie understood the meaning behind the foreign words well enough that her heart constricted with fear.

The Carmencita or Carmelita from the village they had just left was especially persistent, following them to the last shabby cottage, touching his shoulder and shaking her boobs.

Charlie scowled when at last the woman stayed behind, waving and calling after them. She hurried on to leave the place behind as fast as she could.

When they stopped for a mid-day break, Charlie threw her backpack down with much more force than necessary.

“Charlotte? Something wrong?” Monroe put down his backpack beside her, touching her shoulder.

“Leave me alone.” She swatted his hand away.

“Hey…” He stepped back, raising his hands, “I just… if you want to be left alone – ”

“Yeah, just go and leave me like I know you can’t wait to!” Charlie hated that she sounded like she was about to cry.

“So, that’s what this is about, you think I’m gonna leave you?” Monroe gaped at her, doing that frustrating thing with his tongue, which almost distracted her.

“Everyone else did, so – “

“ – so why wouldn’t I. Right.” He turned away and started setting up the camp.

Of course it was about leaving, everything had always been about leaving… _when she had seen the bandits coming, Monroe fighting… it had nearly taken her too long to react… and yet it had all happened so fast; the steel against his throat – blood already spurting in her imagination, a millisecond of satisfaction with a terrible vision of a future: alone in an empty, grey, soundless world, no warmth of his hand… The trained hunter in her hadn’t needed a conscious thought to set an arrow to the crossbow, aim, and release._

Charlie sulked, but got to work as well, the air between them so thick one could cut it with a knife. She had hurt him; she had wanted to hurt him. Only that it tasted bitter now and she wished she hadn’t, because what if she had gone too far and he would really leave?

Half an hour later they had a fire going, a squirrel they had caught on the way roasting over it and a few potatoes from the supplies they had got in the village baking in the embers. They still hadn’t said anything, sitting further apart than normally.

“I hate you.” Charlie broke the silence.

“No, you don’t. You want to, but you don’t.” Monroe sounded tired. He seemed sad when she looked at him.

He was right, of course, again.

She wanted to hate him, because not hating him felt as failing Dad’s memory, Danny’s memory. But she didn’t really hate him. Not anymore. Not after everything they had been through, not after all the weeks – no, probably months – of him being the only thing willing her to go on while she just wanted to stop as if that would stop everything to cease hurting so much.

Charlie’s memories of the time between the Tower and the attack at the creek were hazy, muffled.

Consciously, she knew what she had been doing: walking, hunting, listening to Monroe’s voice repeating itself in her head even when he had been quiet – the sound becoming ever more comforting than annoying. He had been talking about the world before the Blackout and the one after; relayed the stories of him and Miles’, throwing in Ben and Rachel now and then. Sometimes his voice had grown distant as if he had been talking to himself, recalling the days in the Marines or early after the Blackout. A few times he had got carried away, too close to the present: Ben, Danny, Rachel, the Tower; and stopped in the middle of a sentence.

She knew she had been eating, washing, sleeping, helping make camp, watching the fire, all the little everyday things.

She _knew_ all those things had happened, but she didn’t remember them. It was like she had been under a dome of glass which blotted out everything, contorted it into something she now recalled as if it had been someone else’s experience, not her own. The invisible wall had separated her from everything, including her thoughts, her pain, as if it had absorbed them, as if it had been made of them.

After the bandits’ attack, the glass wrapping around her started thinning, melting, the pain and fear it had held at bay sipping through her skin once more while the mist around her gradually cleared, her eyes again able to discern colours, the sounds registering in her ears with more clarity, her brain somehow restarted, crudely, like a newly oiled old mechanism that had been stayed for a while.

A thought crossed Charlie’s mind now.

“Do you want me to hate you?”

Monroe shook his head, diverted from who-knows-what-kind of his own contemplation. “What?”

Maybe if she hated him, he would have an excuse to leave her, something to absolve himself from whichever promise or obligation he thought he had to her because of Miles or her mom. She couldn’t exactly put it into words, though.

He stood up and came closer, squatting down beside her.

“Talk to me, Charlotte.”

For a moment, Charlie hated the concern in his voice, as if he really cared... A part of her insisted he really did, but another part disagreed, the part that was afraid to believe, to hope… because every time she did, people failed her, left her, died.

She doodled in the dirt with her index finger instead of answering. He settled beside her and waited.

He worried about her. No one had ever worried about her. No, that was not fair, they had: Dad had, Mom probably had, too, Miles surely had; but Dad’s first concern had most of all been that she hadn’t caused any trouble, Mum had first of all worried about Danny, and Miles – he had drowned his concerns in whiskey and hid them behind a tough-guy face.

Monroe was the first one who seemed to be concerned about her, not beside something else, not after all other things, but mostly, firstly about her.

She had got used to it unawares, so much so she wouldn’t know what to do without it. There, she was back at the whole abandonment issue.

Charlie looked at Bass.

Monroe, Bass – Charlie had lately been uncertain how to think of him, what to call him: “Monroe” was the evil monster somewhere far away, “Bass” was always spoken with Miles’ voice in her head; so she had been avoiding addressing him directly even when the situation called for her to get his attention – “Sebastian”, that was the name she rolled around her mouth, testing it, but had never said it, yet.

He looked like a tornado had just been raging inside him, uprooting something half-buried under the surface.

Charlie inched closer. Maybe she shouldn’t have thrown a tantrum earlier. It wasn’t like he had done anything. It was just that she was always so afraid of being abandoned by someone ever since Mom had left, and it had only gone worse and worse from there. And here she was at the worst point of all, and the only thing left to get worse was if he left her, too.

It was crazy, irrational – he was still Monroe, damn it, and yet he was not, not the Monroe she had once thought he had been, at least not for the most part.

Whatever was going inside his head now was something she wasn’t sure she should poke at.

Then again, what if she could help? Charlie snorted inwardly, berating herself – how did she end up wanting to help him of all people? The answer offered itself: because he was the only one who was helping her.

However, the words wouldn’t come to her, so she just sat there, close, but not touching, until it was time to check the food and turn it, and then continued sitting in silence as the dusk around them thickened.

It was him, who more whispered than spoke first.

“I’ve got nothing left.”

He looked at her and laughed, but there was no joy in the sound. “I’ve got nothing left,” he repeated. “My family…” he trailed off.

“I know. I’ve seen the tombstones.” Charlie paused. “What happened?”

“A fucking car accident.” He swallowed. “You know, the last time I had this conversation was with Miles. Figures it’s a Matheson again, huh. He was all I had, his family my family, and now, now he’s gone, and I’ve got fucking no one again.”

“You’ve got me.” The words were out of Charlie’s mouth without a thought. There had been a time she would have said he deserved being alone, but back then she had thought she had known what being alone meant. She had been wrong.

Sebastian laughed again, although now his eyes glinted suspiciously close to tears in the fading light.

“Miles said that, too.” He shook his head, then went on. “Yeah, I’ve got you, Charlotte. You’re the only fucking thing left from both my families.”

He ran his hand over his eyes, and Charlie couldn’t just sit, but she couldn’t find words either, so she moved closer, and put her arms around him.

“So, no, I don’t want you to hate me, although I probably – no, not probably – I deserve it.”

“Maybe.” She agreed. “I don’t know anymore. And you were right. I don’t hate you.”

He gave her a sad smile.

“I can’t leave you, Charlotte,” he said after a few moments. “No whore flashing her tits up my face will change that.”

That sounded a lot like a promise, though promises were something Charlie had no longer trusted. Only that maybe she wanted to trust this one because…

“I’ve got nothing left, either. Just you,” she said, leaning her head on his shoulder. He didn’t reply, but he put his arm around her waist and leaned his head against hers. They remained like that until it was time to check the food again, and when it was done they ate and prepared to sleep, not talking, although the silence lost its weight.

***

Nightmares started only after the bandits’ attack. Charlie dreamt of fire and screams; except that there hadn’t been any apart from hers which woke her up.

At least she didn’t think there had been. She asked Sebastian about it – If they had suffered.

He thought about it before he answered.

“It all happened so fast… not for long, anyway.”

It was the truth at least, all the consolation there was.

***

The next question on the menu was: “What do we do now?”

He took a long time before shrugging: “Live, I guess.”

“How?”

There was no answer to that.

_How do you live after you lose everything and the world is turned upside down for the second, no, the third time around?_

Somehow they just did, heading yet further south as the news caught up with them of the bombs hitting the East coast and the return of the United States.

Charlie didn’t care about the United States, just as she hadn’t really cared about the rebels: all she had ever wanted was her loved ones with her. And now there was no one, almost, save Sebastian.

***

Bass stopped her hands when she was halfway through undoing the buttons on his shirt, covering her fingers with his.

“What are you doing, Charlotte?”

“What does it look like?”

“Is this about you being afraid of me leaving again? You don’t – “

“No.” She didn’t let him go on. “I thought about it, before. But no, not now. It’s just…  Can’t I just want this?”

In the firelight she saw him half-smile. “Yeah. You can.” He let go of her fingers and reached over to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, pulling her closer, his lips meeting hers.

***

After their breathing and pulse settled, Charlie lazily drew circles across his skin. “This is nice,” she murmured. “Never done this before.”

“Of course you’ve had sex before.”

She tsk-ed. “Not that. This.” She ran her palm over his chest, loving the feeling of the muscles flexing under her touch. “Not being in a hurry.”

His studied her with warmth in his eyes. “Yeah,” he agreed. “Not hurried is better.” He embraced her more snugly. “And you’re right. This is nice.”

***

It was not the life Charlie had wanted.

Their cabin – only a bedroom and a kitchen, a room you could hardly call a bathroom, and a miniature porch – was just close enough to the nearest village that it wasn’t in the middle of nowhere but far enough they were left alone. There was a shed and a pen for a pair of goats and a few chickens behind it and a spring just a little aside, falling over a short slope.

It was not the life Charlie had wanted: farming and hunting instead of adventures and fighting monsters and discovering great new cities.

But it was the life Charlie wanted now.

She stood on the doorstep for a moment, listening to the sounds of nature as her eyes out of habit scanned the surroundings for a possible danger, then she sat down on the middle of the three steps leading up to the door.

Sebastian was quite a sight as he brought an axe down upon the last log before he straightened and looked up, grinning when he noticed her.

“Dinner’s ready,” she called.

She watched him moving around as he put the split wood and the tools away, before he wiped the sweat off his neck with a rag and put his shirt on.

He came over and sat down behind her, so she could lean back against him.

“Saw you ogling me,” he teased, rubbing her shoulders.

“Gotta be some use for you,” she returned in the same manner, turning her head so he could kiss her.

He slipped his arms around her.

“Was thinking about names,” he mentioned, caressing the swell of her belly.

“Me too.”

“Okay, you first.”

“If it’s a girl… I think Nora and – your mom’s name was Gail, right?”

A shadow of pain flitted across his startled face before he replied.

“Yes, but, what about Rachel?”

Charlie shrugged, looking in the distance. “My mom, she wasn’t happy… I don’t think she had ever been… I don’t know, I don’t want to burden our child with it,” she tried to explain.

She felt him nod. “All right. Nora Gail, sounds good. And for a boy?”

“Miles,” they said as one, laughing shortly.

“And Danny,” Charlie added.

“Daniel Miles,” he repeated. “That’s a good name, too.” He kissed her temple, and she covered his hands, resting on her belly, with hers.

Sebastian moved first. “Now, you said something about dinner.”

“I did. Let’s go eat.”

He helped her stand up, holding her hand as they walked inside. In the doorway, they stopped, glancing back at the sunset, then smiled to each other and stepped inside, closing the door to the evening outside. 

***

~FIN~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for taking ages to finish this. It's a little shorter than I thought it would be, but I think I've said everything that had to be said. 
> 
> What do you think? Good? Bad? Did I go over the top with the happy ending? 
> 
> Un-beta’d, so tell me if you see something. Comments are always welcome.


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